


a crack in the wall

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [32]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: (not really) - Freeform, Ableism Mention, Autistic Character, Gen, an important conversation in an empty room, events happen somewhen during 2.X, ikael has savant syndrome! yes, physical abuse mention, reflection is post 5.0 or during 5.X, thancred is trying, thancred writes his old man memoirs 😔
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23039992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: ... leaves both rooms open to observation.A friendship of understanding has to start somewhere. (Or, Thancred reminisces far too much when he writes, and in Ikael's opinion, he should just skip to the action).
Relationships: Warrior of Light & Thancred Waters
Series: ikael [32]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/909954
Comments: 19
Kudos: 25





	a crack in the wall

It is not that Thancred understands Ikael, per se.

He understands Ikael’s _needs_ , yes. A lot more so now than he had a decade—gods, has it really been that long for him?—ago. Thancred is naturally observant, and being miraculously gifted with just about the most high-end education the realms had to offer bore no small contribution to his skills. In fact, he had always found profiling and psychoanalysis interesting in its own way, relevance to his work notwithstanding. However, just because he knows how to react _to_ Ikael does not mean he can fully comprehend the way he thinks. And truth be told, he does not think he ever needs to.

No, Thancred is not deaf to the whispers that ghost the Scions’ walls when newcomers first encounter the ever-vaunted, so-called Warrior of Light. Yes, he is aware of what category of people Ikael fits so neatly into. And yes, he is willing to get aggressive with anyone who so much as utters the word “simple,” context be damned. The Scions may be limited in number, but they have a tolerance to certain things, and disrespecting Ikael has always been a sure-fire way to permanently ruin one’s chances to be initiated into their ranks, whether the poor bastard himself has ever been aware of it or not. Most likely not, Thancred thinks wryly.

There are some things good folk simply do not do. Attacking vulnerable people who cannot wholly defend themselves is one of them.

Ikael does not know this, but Thancred had held a meeting the night before he had joined them. _He’s shy_ , he’d said. _And he’s different—he may not know how to fit in with us._ To Minfilia, _I want to help him integrate, if I can_.

Of course, that plan had ended tits-up in the dirt. Thancred does not know how much _integration_ he can do behind black robes and a mask. And then he’d come back, and Ikael had been… different. More confident, seemingly more sure of his place with them. He’d helped Thancred, although he would never have admitted it back then. Thancred had had to… recalculate. He’d underestimated this shy, smiling little miqo’te with the daisy in his hair. He had soft eyes, but they could be sharp. He held an awkwardness, but also a focus, a drive. He did not have to have his hand held. He could help others. He could be strong.

So Thancred had made the quaint little mistake of striking out too far in the _opposite_ direction.

~*~

It is nine years in the past by Thancred's count, four by Ikael’s. They have recently moved into the Rising Stones; things are getting more or less settled. And not too long ago, there had been an incident, and it is weighing on Thancred's mind despite himself.

Despite himself, because he had been… involved. In a way. To make an uncomfortable encounter short, there had been a little tiff between Ikael and a few of the senior Scions about the late Louisoix Leveilleur. Ikael had stared at a painting and wondered aloud about the right of his authority and… ye gods. It hadn’t really been a tiff so much as a scolding, although Thancred himself hadn’t said much beyond a few sharp words. He wholly respects Papalymo, Y'shtola, and of course Minfilia, the kindest voice in the room, but it is impossible to not notice a bowed head, folded ears, and deafening, palpable muteness, even if he does not wish to sympathize. Or a tail tucked between legs, or hands trembling, just barely, or wet eyes darting away in a hasty retreat.

He hadn’t quite felt bad. Because the air had been ripe with offense, and in all honesty Ikael is all but a newcomer, and he has no right. One does not speak ill of the dead, especially not this one.

But it is the following evening, and Tataru is hesitantly setting a plate into Thancred's hands, because apparently Ikael had not come down to eat all day. Thancred almost resents the thin fibre of guilt threatening to brush against his heart. More so because it is there than why—must guilt hound his every step?

“I don’t think he’s even left his room since yesterday,” Tataru confesses, soft and worried where Thancred would never be. “If you could check up on him as well, just to see if he’s alright?”

Thancred gives a short sigh. “Why does it have to be me?” he questions, although it is with paltry true ire.

“He likes you best,” Tataru replies, unrepentantly frank. “He’ll be more comfortable opening up to you. Now hurry along before it gets cold.”

Thancred doubts that. Still, he does not want their receptionist’s busybody hands tugging on his coattails, so he accepts the dish and heads off to Ikael’s room. Hopefully, he can make this quick.

But his footsteps slow as he nears the door, and by the time he is in front of it he is stood still and quiet, eyes downcast. There is a… noise coming from inside. It is not a happy one. Thancred has never heard it from Ikael before, this sort of gasping, wheezing moan, choked at its entry and wet at its end. He knows crying when he hears it, but this is just… pain.

He shifts uncomfortably. He does not wish to feel overly responsible for his fellows’ welfare, even less this one after the day before. But the fibre of guilt is spinning itself into a thread. Ikael hadn’t even said anything back, he had just…

If only to not let his thoughts run their course, Thancred raises his fist and knocks. The hoarse wailing stops immediately. A full minute later, there is still only silence.

Thancred sighs, then knocks again, a little firmer. “Food, Ikael,” he says. He does not know whether it is a positive or a negative thing that his voice comes out flat. “From Tataru, since you haven’t eaten.”

There is again no response. Thancred waits a minute more, and after still nothing has happened, makes a decision, bending down and setting the plate on the floor. He has no wish to enter, but he cannot simply…

He steps back, turns on his heel, and leaves, ignoring the heaviness nibbling at his chest. Whether the mice or Ikael get to the food first is up to him. It is out of Thancred's hands now.

When he passes by a bell and a half later, the plate is gone.

~*~

It was a few days later that Thancred first began to learn to separate his guilt from his feelings of protectiveness. It was an unhealthy combination, he now realizes, that he was heavily dousing Minfilia in at the time, bless her sundered soul. And… he may have done so recently with Ryne, come to think of it. Perhaps even Y'shtola, just a little bit. Or even Urianger and the twins.

Godsdamn him. This whole journaling bullshite is supposed to help him accept his feelings, not get annoyed at them. Well, maybe people shouldn’t go around throwing themselves into pits, or at Sin Eaters, or into swivving _lava_ —Alisaie Sodding Stress-Migraine Leveilleur, should be her full name—or into any danger at all, really, and Thancred would thus be saved from an early death by bleeding heart. No, Ikael, he is fine. No, he isn’t hungry. Unless those are mini quiches, in which case yes, Thancred will take one or three. Thank you.

Anyways.

~*~

It is a few days later (in the past, of course. Thancred is still writing this down at Ikael’s stupid puppy-dog-eyed, admittedly somewhat helpful insistence). Things have been fairly quiet, as they tend to be in the days between Alphinaud’s rambunctious attempts to head himself an army. Thancred has an idle eye on a face in that crowd—Riol is his name, and apparently he has had history with them before—but aside from a few vague future plans, his time is more or less unoccupied.

Ikael has been… quiet.

He had started a few habits back in the Waking Sands that have all but evened themselves out into consistency since they have moved. One of those habits is preparing breakfast every morning, and less often lunch and dinner. His cooking at this stage is better than Tataru’s, to be frank, and even F’lhaminn’s (The rapid speed at which he had developed the skill seemingly out of nowhere is quite astonishing, more so for Thancred when he had spotted a perfectly decorated cake sitting in a white box one fine afternoon of that year. Ikael’s handwriting is scratchy and hesitant, but the intricate flowers on the cake had spoken of a steady, skillful hand. It was a contrast that was seemingly at odds with itself. Thancred had long ago heard tell tale of a quiet mind like Ikael’s who had seemingly paranatural abilities in arcanima, and he wonders sometimes whether such a thing can reoccur in the most unexpected of people and skills). Ever since earlier that week, every meal has been sitting immaculate, hot, and fully prepared in the kitchens, with not an Ikael in sight.

It is a little disconcerting when one considers how early some of them greet the morning. Seeing Ikael crack an egg over a sizzling frying pan or rapidly chop something healthy and soon-to-be delicious has become the early riser’s de facto transition into the socialization the day will bring. Now he is nowhere to be found, and the food is a little colder.

Thancred will realize later that it was doubly Ikael’s caretaking nature and his sad habit of trying to earn their love that had made the food appear three times a day and stressed to perfection. It is a behaviour he will not drop until years later—hells, the Thancred in the now will still have great difficulties in trying to talk him out concepts like “apology pies.” _You should have healthier ways to maintain a relationship_ , he will tease, mostly worried. _You know, like how you badger me to talk about my feelings?_ Ikael will say back, _Badgers are very cute and you are also cute but more like a jackal._ Ikael is worse at changing the subject than Thancred, but he does manage to make it confusing enough that it works regardless.

Another habit Ikael had started back in Vesper Bay is fishing trips. Every so often, he will grab both his fishing rod and an extra, and will traipse around their headquarters to ask for company. More often than not he gets snubbed, but he does not seem to mind overmuch. Thancred had gone with him a few times, either for the sake of it or to get his mind off things, and it had been pleasant enough.

Ikael hasn’t had a fishing trip for a while, and one is due. Thancred is of a mind to take him up on the offer when it inevitably comes, if only to sort out whatever awkward conversation he feels they ought to have. But the week goes by, and Ikael is quiet and withdrawn.

Thancred's guilt has festered in the few days since he had unceremoniously laid food at his door. Surely he could have at least asked if he could come in? If Ikael had said no, it would have been out of his hands. But Thancred hadn’t asked, and he cannot help but feel as if Ikael's hangdog demeanor is at least partly his fault. Tataru’s sidelong glance the morning after had certainly seemed to suggest so.

Or perhaps Thancred is stretching his sense of responsibility farther than it should extend. He is not Ikael’s keeper, after all. Besides, everyone has been on his case lately about not feeling guilty about things that are “not his fault.” It is quite irritating. That is to say, everyone… except Ikael.

He had simply… helped. In one night of silent listening and care, Ikael had helped more than all of the Scions had in a moon.

Maybe it is that. Thancred simply feels indebted towards him. It explains his guilt; what kind of person is he for refusing to so much as lend an ear after all Ikael has done for him? An ungrateful one, that is for certain. He will check up on Ikael, then, as he had failed to do when Tataru had asked. It is the least he can do in return.

Ikael comes back to the Rising Stones late in the evening, having spent the day helping the Free Company Minfilia has assigned him to for aid. Thancred spots him slinking to the bar counter, head bowed and tail hanging low.

He watches curiously as he sits down and mumbles something to F’lhaminn. Her ears fold down in concern, and she leans forwards—she murmurs something back that Thancred cannot make out, and Ikael shakes his head. F’lhaminn purses her lips, but reaches underneath the counter and pours Ikael two fingers of dark amber liquid from a bottle that Thancred recognizes. Whiskey.

Odd. Somewhat cautiously, he makes his way over. He seats himself with a soft sigh, stretching his neck. “Rough day?” he greets, and looks at Ikael.

He is staring into nothing, eyes downcast. His head shifts towards Thancred, who frowns when the bridge of his nose turns to reveal soft skin. Is that—

“What is that?” he murmurs, leaning forwards. Ikael faces him fully, glancing up for a brief moment, and the discolouration hidden underneath his bangs becomes fully visible. There is mottled bruising around his left eye, from the looks of it less than a day old. It is rounded and contained, but deep in colour—from a single harsh blow, then. The rest of his face is free of injury.

Ikael pulls away, lips twinging, and knocks back his drink. He coughs most of it back out immediately, slapping his palm against the counter.

“Easy, easy with the strong stuff.” Thancred's voice automatically shifts into a more soothing tone. Ikael attempting to drown his woes in alcohol, Menphina, that’s not a sight he’d ever thought he’d see.

Ikael’s ears dip down, and this time when he returns to his glass it is to slurp loudly at it. Thancred has to stifle a smile. That is more along the lines of what he had expected.

“It looks like you got into a bit of a tussle, eh?” he offers when it seems that Ikael will not elaborate on his own. “Let me guess: the other chap looks worse.”

If the whiskey and the body language hadn’t been hint enough that something is wrong, the way Ikael flinches at that statement is. Thancred frowns as he rocks his head into his neck, as if shaking it.

“Didn’t fight,” Ikael mumbles, dark lashes sweeping over his cheeks.

“Well, that’s quite a shiner you’ve got there.” Thancred keeps his tone amicable, even as unease settles in his stomach. Something about that answer… “Mind if I ask what happened?”

Were Ikael anyone else, he might have brushed him off, or offered some story about walking into a door. Instead, he simply says, “Someone hit me.”

Thancred bites back the immediate _What?!_ that wants to break out at that. He swallows down the accompanying feeling of righteous indignation, detachedly noticing the largeness of its presence. Protectiveness, this time not associated at all with guilt. But he should not overreact—it may not be what it sounds like.

“What do you mean?” he asks instead. His voice comes out admirably even, lifting at the end as if it is merely an innocent question. Ikael’s shoulders hunch together.

“Hit me with—with—his hand,” he says, and his voice trembles. “I-I-I don’t know why. I-I didn’t do anything.”

The feeling rears up, and it is all Thancred can do to wrestle down the urge to demand details and immediately set off on a murderous rampage. He cannot; he cannot even risk hinting at his emotions lest Ikael misunderstand his ire.

“What happened?” he asks instead, gently and far more calmly than he feels. Ikael’s wide eyes flick up to his—and Thal’s bloody balls, they are wet, and it makes Thancred's hands _itch_ for his knives. He adds, “It is alright, Ikael. You did nothing wrong.”

That is enough, thank the gods. “H-he said I was—I was—annoying,” Ikael tells him shakily. “I-I’m sorry. I-I-I don’t want to go back there, Thanc—Thancred. Please.”

“You do not have to,” Thancred promises. _To defend those who cannot defend themselves_ , is one of their tenets, and it does not fail to hold true if the person who needs defending is within their ranks. “You don’t have to ever see him again. Is he part of the Free Company Minfilia assigned you to? If you tell her what happened, I’m certain she’ll take you off—”

“Minfilia hates me,” Ikael bursts out, eyes filling with moisture. “I-I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.”

He buries his head in his hands and begins to sway from side to side. F’lhaminn, politely hovering at a distance, gives Thancred a pointed look and moves to the far end of the counter. This time, at least, he does not need to be told twice.

“Of course she does not hate you.” He frowns, leaning towards Ikael. “She would never hate you, Ikael. No one here does.”

His words seem to have the opposite of their desired effect. Ikael peeks up, but sees how close they are and veers away.

“I-I’m sorry,” he says shakily. “I’m sorry. Are you going to—going to—hit me too?”

“What?!” Thancred recoils. “No, I would never!”

Ikael’s eyes widen in alarm. Thancred hurries to restate, gentler and more controlled, “I would never. _No one_ should ever. It was wrong of that bastard to hurt you, Ikael. Believe you me, were he here in front of us right now, I would gut him like a pig.”

He licks over his teeth, smiling wryly. Ikael’s anxiety turns to confusion, but that is a far better emotion for him to hold. Confusion can be explained away, but fear knows no reason.

“Very… strong words,” Ikael says hesitantly. His eyes quickly flit to F’lhaminn, and he lowers his voice. Touching a hand to his chest, he asks, “My fault?”

“No, of course not,” Thancred says immediately. Whether he is asking about Thancred's language or the blow, he is uncertain, but the answer is the same.

Ikael tilts his head, studying him with large, sad eyes (Ikael is seemingly always sad, and Thancred doesn’t even know why). After a long minute during which he glances at F’lhaminn once again, he says carefully, “I want to talk to you.”

That saves Thancred half the effort. He quirks a small, relieved smile. “That sounds like a marvelous idea. Shall we head to somewhere more private, perhaps?”

Confusion edges Ikael’s gaze, but he nods. Climbing off his stool, he says, “You are a smart person to talk to when you are not talking pretend.”

His sentence starts out hesitantly, but speeds up into a point as it nears its end. Thancred, caught off guard, parts his lips wordlessly, but by then Ikael is already shuffling off. He steps behind to follow.

Ikael takes them to the room he has cleared out to be his own. There are few belongings claiming the space; he must be still in the process of moving in.

Once the door closes, he seems to ready himself to speak. He takes in a rather large breath, letting it out through puffed cheeks. When the air has left his lungs, he says to the floor, “I-I am sorry for being so annoying all the time and that everybody hates me do you want me to leave I am sorry.”

His face contorts, and he flops gracelessly onto his bed.

“You are not…” Thancred frowns, slowly moving to sit next to him. “Leave? This room?”

“Leave the Scions,” Ikael blurts out. His face twists further, and he covers it with his hands. “I am sorry please do not make me leave I have nowhere else to go!” And then, to Thancred's horror, he begins to cry.

“No, I—of course I do not want you to leave, Ikael!” Thancred reaches out, squeezing one hunched shoulder in concern. “Nobody wants you to leave.”

His voice is even, but his mind is swimming. Have they truly given off that impression? How long has Ikael felt this way? Ever since the incident with the painting, or had the seed of doubt in his mind been planted far earlier?

Another burden to weigh on Thancred's shoulders, another cross to bear. He bows his head, and is about to—he doesn’t know, apologize, or scramble to rectify the situation, when Ikael says, “I-I don’t understand why you treat your dead members better than your live ones.”

It is a vicious thing to say, and for a second Thancred is stunned. Ikael’s green eyes lock onto his, piercing and intelligent and yes, a little angry. He is still crying, cheeks damp from his upset, but his tone is looking for a fight.

Sharpness rises in Thancred’s tongue. He nearly lets it out, but bites down at the last second—now is not the time to engage in a quarrel. Ikael can throw gauntlets all he wants, but a wounded animal will snap at any hand, friend or foe. Thancred is his _senior_. Thancred had recruited him. The responsibility of the conversation, at least right now, is his to take.

“Master Louisoix was a great man who sacrificed everything to ensure the safety of the realm,” he says, tone composed. Ikael’s mouth tightens, predictably, but Thancred does not owe him any justification. Instead he says, “ _That_ is not open to discussion. Your concerns about…”

He glances away, and his voice softens somewhat. “… About however you are being treated are. I would encourage you once more to speak to Minfilia. If you do not wish to do that, I am here.”

Silence. When he glances back at Ikael, he is hugging his knees, staring off into nothing.

Thancred eases himself back on one hand. “I am here to ensure that you feel… comfortable being with us, Ikael. If you have any iss-”

“I’m done.”

Thancred's eyelids flutter. “I beg your pardon?”

“I-I’m done,” Ikael repeats, a little louder but still barely audible. His arms tighten around his knees. “I-I-I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

Thancred's face falls lax. “Ikael…”

“You can—can go now.” Ikael’s voice is starting to shake again, but he is clearly trying to keep it as steady as he can. “I-I’m sorry for bothering you.”

And what had taken minutes to unravel has stitched back up in a matter of seconds. Thancred sits there on the simple mattress, caught between the urge to take his professional leave and to stay and figure out what he had said wrong.

He wets his lips, eyes drifting as he hurries to think of a solution before it is too late to fix anything. Why had Ikael opened up to him in the first place? He had… he had said…

The evening drifts back to him. Ikael’s openness, his trust, his honesty. _What happened?_ and _Someone hit me._ After that.

_You are a smart person to talk to when you are not talking pretend._

Thancred takes a single measured breath. Then he says, “I’m sorry if we’ve been driving you away.”

Ikael’s head lifts. Thancred glances at him and quirks a small, self-deprecating smile.

“I know it can be… hard to feel as if you belong in a group that is seemingly nothing like you,” he continues, choosing his words with purpose but not too carefully. He braces his other hand against the mattress and leans his weight back. “I felt the same way once, a long time ago. It took years until I was fully comfortable with my new setting and the new people that came with it.”

Ikael’s ears fold back. “I-I don’t know what else I can give anyone,” he confesses quietly. Relief loosens Thancred's shoulders—that worked. “I-I am giving so much, but it is never—it is never good enough.”

Thancred looks away, guilt dropping his gaze. “I know,” he says, because it is impossible to not notice how hard Ikael is trying, from the food to the manpower to the hesitant smiles to the offers of anything they need. “I am… sorry, Ikael. We do not mean to push you aside or ignore your needs. It is just…”

His mind suddenly conjures up an image of Ikael sitting next to him on a roof, moonlight softening his sharp eyes. _They should have noticed_ , he says simply, and offers Thancred the last slice of lemon pie.

Thancred bows his head. “We’ve been neglecting you,” he says without inflection, because it is the bare truth of the matter. “I’m sorry.”

 _You should not have to try and earn our love_ , he does not add, because although he thinks it is a little bit sad, he has a feeling Ikael will not listen.

Ikael says nothing for a long time. Minutes tick by, and Thancred spends them staring up at the ceiling. What do they have him for, this Warrior of Light? He does not even like that title. Why is he with them if he is barely getting enough to live, let alone truly thrive?

_I have nowhere else to go._

… Right. Thancred's gaze falls. Not exactly the best reason.

Finally, hesitantly, Ikael offers, “I-I am… sorry for being nasty.”

Thancred sighs quietly. “It is alright, Ikael. You were not incorrect.”

He sees Ikael shift from in his periphery. A moment later, he feels tentative fingers brush his arm, and he glances back.

Ikael offers him a hesitant smile. “A-are you… pretend talking?”

“I’m not,” says Thancred.

Ikael nods, ears folding back. “I-I… like you when you are not,” he says to the hem of Thancred's tunic. “I wish we could—we could be friends. Real ones.”

That is… something. Thancred considers his words—in full, weighing them carefully against his guard to see if they are worth letting past. He could… let Ikael slip in through the cracks. Twelve, he’s already managed to do it, if this evening has been any indication. But it could be… allowed. Warranted.

“How about this,” Thancred proposes finally. “I will stop… ‘talking pretend’ around you, if you are truly certain that the person you have seen is someone you wish to know.” He glances away. “I cannot say that it will be in your best interest, but it is up to you. And in return, you do the same. Say to me what you would actually say, not what you think I want to hear. A mutual exchange of trust—how does that sound?”

Ikael tilts his head to the side, letting out a quiet hum. After a beat, he says, “Yeah.”

Thancred offers him a hesitant but genuine smile. Ikael returns it, ears dipping down shyly.

“I-I… liked when you got angry about the bruise,” he mumbles, as if he is truly saying something else.

Not surprising. Poor bastard acts like he has never had someone be vocally protective of him in his life. Thancred quietly tucks away the revelation that he had caught the anger, despite his own best attempts to hide it—and that he is admitting it, to boot. Interesting.

“Should I threaten every primal that endangers your life?” he murmurs, lips curling up. “You clocked your head on a cabinet the other day—how about that? Should I be having harsh words with it as well?”

Ikael giggles, shocking and bright. It makes Thancred's smile part reflexively, and he feels a swell of sudden softness that hasn’t surfaced for someone other than Minfilia in a long, long time. For a brief instant it scares him, and then the moment passes.

“Pumpkin tarts make bruises go away faster, so if you join me I will make some,” Ikael says. His eyes are alight with a hesitant hope.

“Oh,” Thancred replies. He doesn’t think that has even a remote possibility of being true. But Ikael’s expression is fragile, and Thancred thinks back to hot food, and fishing trips, and lemon pie. “Sure, it sounds like fun. As long as I get first tasting rights.”

“Of course!” Ikael says. He messily smears a hand over his eyes, sniffling discreetly, and unfolds himself.

“Thancred?” he adds, something discerning in his gaze.

Thancred borrows a word from his vocabulary. “Yeah?”

“I think the person I have seen in here,” Ikael slowly taps Thancred's chest with his forefinger, “is one of the best people I have ever met.”

~*~

“Thancred, have you _finally_ finished?” Ikael’s voice is far more dramatic than it has any right to be. “I am telling you, it will hurt your hand if you keep writing for that long! Then it will stop working and you will have to be left-handed for the rest of your life.”

“I’m ambidextrous,” Thancred lies blithely, stretching his wrist. He pulls the fingers of his right hand back, making a face at the resulting twinge in his forearm.

“No you’re not, you twat,” Ikael returns easily. He comes up behind Thancred. Fingers sink into the knotted muscles of his shoulders, wrenching a groan from his throat.

“I’ll be done if it means you’ll give me a massage for as long as I want,” Thancred mumbles, dropping his head.

Ikael snorts. “No happy endings.”

“You disappoint me so,” Thancred sighs dramatically. “I’ll have you know I’m still a very eligible bachelor. I could leave you for… someone else.”

“Yes, I was talking to Eidith just the other day,” Ikael says. His voice is thick with amusement.

Thancred groans, head lolling back. Ikael only laughs at him, because he still thinks that whole situation is the funniest thing to happen on this star. Also because he is an arse.

“Alright, I will hit you until you feel better,” he agrees, alluding to the massage in absolutely the worst possible way. Truly, Thancred is blessed to be living with him. “Tell me if I break your back, yeah?”

“I’ll scream in agony,” Thancred says.

Ikael makes an affirmatory noise. “Lovely! And in return I can read your angst.”

“It isn’t _angst_ ,” Thancred rebuts, offended. He tries to turn his head (so Ikael can see just how offended his face is), but Ikael rubs the base of his neck with _just_ the right amount of pressure, and he drops his chin to his chest instead.

“I read a little over your shoulder and I think it is about you beating me up!” Ikael chirps. “That is awful, Thancred. But I understand that you are overcompensating for how slow you are and also how very ugly and old. So I will graciously forgive you. Now please take your shirt off.”

He pats Thancred on the head, then leaves the room to go fetch the necessary items as well as probably a bell’s supply of snacks.

“You know, I used to work at a luxurious resort spa in Ul’dah,” Thancred mumbles, but no one is there to hear.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> i've decided to close the series here for now! it's a good place to pick up if there's ever a pressing need to add to it, and it's a good place to end without feeling like there's anything left unwritten. thank you to everyone that's read, kudos'd, and most especially commented <3
> 
> ( also please comment if you liked it! lol :p )


End file.
